


Pounded in the butt by a manifestation of primal fear

by strawberry_cider



Series: PinotPurple fics [6]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Tingleverse - Chuck Tingle
Genre: Crossover, Dreams, Implied Sexual Content, Jon is asexual and ain’t havin’ it, M/M, Statement Fic, The Slaughter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 12:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21136484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_cider/pseuds/strawberry_cider
Summary: I discovered Chuck Tingle and his podcast, “Pounded in the butt by my own podcast”, and this idea emerged in my mind. Enjoy





	Pounded in the butt by a manifestation of primal fear

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: fixed some typos (it’s late, might have missed some) and fixed the format

INT. MAGNUS INSTITUTE, ARCHIVES, JON’S OFFICE

  
TAPE CLICKS ON

ARCHIVIST

Sta-

(pause)

Statement-

(pause)

(deep breath)

Statement of-

(exasperated groan)

Statement of... Glennjamin Bingle... regarding a... a sexual encounter with a “being” that had been haunting his dreams... that showed up in real life...

(very deep and shaky breath)

(slow exhale)

Statement recorded by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

Violence used to be a big part of my life. I won’t go into detail about my early childhood. I’ve forgotten most of it by now. My aunt and uncle took me in when I was 6. I never met my parents again after that. I had a very happy childhood and adolescence with them. They were a bit hippies, but they were very good people and very funny too with their quirks. I went to college. Graduated. Moved to London, where I currently work as a private school’s therapist. I get by quite well. Life is good! I don’t remember much about my first years and honestly it is for the best.

There... there is one thing, however, I never forgot. It was a song. My mother, or my father, or maybe both of them, would hum it. I think. I can’t replicate the tune. I never had a musical year. If I try, I am overcome with cold shivers. And, honestly, I don’t remember it well. Only a few random notes, unrelated to each-other. I remember it being beautiful, though. The most beautiful melody I ever heard...

In the years since I was adopted, every now and then I would have dreams where I would hear the song in full. I would fall asleep in my bed, in my room, and open my eyes to see I was somewhere else. At first I would be in my former home, in my former bedroom. It would look ransacked and abandoned, my new bed the only thing left. Dawn or dusk light would come through the broken window. The wall opposite the window was covered in gun shots. I would get up and look out the window to see a red sky over a deserted, blackened land, neighbouring buildings in ruin, old skeletons buried by ash and dirt. The song flew on the breeze, somewhere in the far distance.

Next I would dream I was in my aunt and uncle’s home. We would wake up in a frenzy and run into their attic or basement. I would hear doors and windows be broken, thumping footsteps making rounds around my house. The song was there, muffled my the walls and my family’s terrified crying and praying.

When I had my first apartment, I would dream my roommates and I were running across the boulevard our block was on. Sirens screeched around us as people ran along with us. Soldiers with dark suits and concealed faces would go back and forth. Some led people to safety, others shot them on sight. There was no way to tell them apart. People would hide inside buildings with broken windows or climb down in the sewers. Others ganged against soldiers and stole their weapons. Others fought each-other. My mates and I would frantically look for shelter as nightmarish metallic planes flew above us, roaring, deafening us. The song is there, in the background of it all but indistinguishable from the chaos.

In college, I would dream I was in the abandoned dorms of my university. The sky was white and grey, muting all colours. I am peeking out a broken window, careful not to be spotted. The colleges are either surrounded by guarding soldiers, armed to the teeth, or completely destroyed. The campus trees and benches are scorched and fallen. The remains of tanks, small structures and people litter the ground. Across the pavement I see the girls’ dorm. A very large gang is also looking towards the campus. Men and women with wild eyes wait for something, armed and heaving in anticipation. The song is but a whisper, but always there.

The dreams didn’t happen often. Not every night, oh no. They happened every 4 or 7 nights. They wouldn’t happen for weeks at a time, sometimes, even months. Once I had none for two full years. They wouldn’t happen for long enough to make me think it was over, they would no longer happen again, only to happen again. The song would never leave me. 

I’d hear it in the wake hours too. When a teacher mistreated me, when a bully picked on me, when my group project members wouldn’t help me, when my aunt and uncle wouldn’t let me do something, when I’d get in an argument, when a prof would waste my time. Whenever I felt my blood heat up with anger, I would start hearing it, gradually getting louder and louder in my ears. It was beautiful, intoxicating, contagious. I worked hard over the years on controlling myself, on remaining calm even in dire situations. I would never hum that tune.

The first dream that was... different, happened two weeks ago. I opened my eyes to find myself in the ruins of London, in front of my apartment’s building. The walls were barrel-shot and cars were overturned. In the distance I heard the hum of broken sirens and the murmur of large crowds. The sun was going down. The sky was on fire, in shades of orange, yellow, red and pink, matching the buildings I could see emitting black smoke in the distance. Big Ben’s clock was broken, the hands hanging off pitifully by the edge, ready to fall any moment on whoever happened to be underneath.

This dream was different, though. The song was louder than ever. It was right next to me.

I spun around wildly. I ran from a corner of the street to the other, morbidly curious to know the source of what had been haunting me all my life. Around a corner I see it. I see him.

He is a man, sitting on top of a destroyed car as though it were a stadium. He is so tall. He is a monster. He has several pairs of arms, each holding a different weapon, a different era, a different killing stance. Other hands were up in surrender. One was in a crisp salute. Two arms, the original ones, I think, held a flute to his lips, from which he sang that cursed, wonderful song. He had three faces, one that sang, one with gritted fanged teeth, one closed and miserable, black blood drooling from the sides of his mouth.

He noticed my presence and slowly turned his head towards me, finishing his song and taking the flute away from his sculpted lips. We sat in silence in the empty street. He looked at me up and down. I suddenly became aware of my state of dress. In all my dreams, I wore what I fell asleep in. That night my pyjamas were nothing but a pair of boxers. Acutely aware of my partial nudity, I felt my face flush. The piper didn’t say anything. He gracefully hopped off the car and made his way to a staircase on the side of the building, leading down. Without thinking, I followed.

It used to be a basement club, or just a pub. It was now a mess, tables overturned and wallpaper ripped and hanging off. The light coming in from the missing door partially illuminated the man I followed, as he sat in one of the surviving chairs. Even sitting down he was taller than me. He planted a sword into the ground in front of him and held it with two of his large hands, between his legs. He wore a tattered, once dark green uniform, unbuttoned in the front, revealing his muscular body, his pectorals and abdomen, all covered in wounds and old blood. My already racing heart quickened at the sight.

“Who are you?” He asked, voice harsh and unfriendly, rough from the damage visible on his neck.

“Glennjamin.” I said, furrowing my brows. The being that had been haunting me all my life didn’t know who I was? Seriously?

“Glennjamin...” He repeated, testing the word on his tongue, his voice now a low rumble, like a far away thunder, announcing the approaching of a storm.

The piper continued “I sang so many times. Yet you never danced. Why is that?”

“I should have danced?” I asked. “I’m not very good at it, I’m told.”

“I’m beginning to think I wasted my time.” He snarled.

“Maybe...” I began to suggest, trying very hard to keep my eyes on his face and not lower. “I could do something else for you.”

He cocked an eyebrow. His eyes burned into me. I could feel my erection pushing against my boxers. God, he was handsome. The middle face, at least.

I heard someone coming from outside. A soldier walking across the threshold and opened his mouth to say something. The piper’s eyes shot off me towards the soldier, once. The soldier immediatly scrambled away, not daring to argue with the silent order. My dick got even harder by this display of absolute power.

“What is it that you offer?” The piper asked, leaning back into his chair, pulling the sword away from in front of him.

My hear pounded as I walked towards him and knelt between his legs. “Myself.” I said.

A very loud ticking noise filled the abandoned pub. The piper looked annoyed. I didn’t understand what was happening until I realised that that was the sound of my alarm.

I woke up with a gasp, alone in my apartment. The sun only began to creep above the horizon, it was still dark. I was covered in sweat and my chest was heaving. I wiped my face with my hands, sighing in annoyance and frustration, and went to turn off that damned thing.

I sat up in bed and looked towards my closet, preparing to get up and start the day. I gasped and fell backwards when I saw him there. The piper was now in my room, in the real world!

“I accept your offer.” He grinned, sauntering towards my bed. 

I liked my lips, shaking with excitement. I felt chills run down my spine, not of fear, but of arousal. I crawled towards him and met on the edge of the bed. I tugged at his tattered pants and revealed his gigantic dick. It slapped my face as it was freed-

The sound of a chair screeched against the floor. Jon quickly gets up from his desk. He can be heard pacing around the room, presumably clutching his hair rightfully going white.   
He sits back down. The sound of paper being picked up.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT) (CONT’D)

It...

(inhale)

It slapped my face as I freed it. I guided it to my mouth and looked at it before swallowing as much as I could of his other pipe. The bullets that blemished his body did not spare his co-

The chair falls against the ground.

ARCHIVIST

No. No. No, no, no, no. I’m not reading the rest of it. I’m not doing it. Not happening. Nope. No. No. No.

Jon walks out of his office, refusing and stomping all the way.

ARCHIVIST

(shouting, frantic, from outside the room) Statement ends!

The door is slammed shut.

TAPE CLICK OFF

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Pounded In The Butt By A Manifestation Of Primal Fear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23379553) by [GoLBPodfics (GodOfLaundryBaskets)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodOfLaundryBaskets/pseuds/GoLBPodfics)
  * [[Podfic of] Pounded in the butt by a manifestation of primal fear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23497531) by [carboncopies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carboncopies/pseuds/carboncopies)


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